


Sticks And Stones

by persesphone



Series: Peter/MJ Future AU [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Future Fic, Mild Smut, One Night Stands, PeterMJ - Freeform, Peterchelle, Prompt Fill, Short Fic Prompt Fill, Spideychelle, and that fear becomes too much for her to manage., in which michelle is afraid that she may have made a mistake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persesphone/pseuds/persesphone
Summary: Now, Michelle is a baller. She has no problem telling what she wants, what she needs, what she knows, what she deserves and is worth. Which is partially how she's suddenly rethinking all of her decisions for this day as she's staring at a face she had been certain she left in her past over three year ago.Though Michelle knows what she wants, she evidently comes to a grinding halt when it comes to Peter Parker.Prompt:Peter and MJ in a one night stand situation after a nasty breakup.





	Sticks And Stones

**Author's Note:**

> this has not been edited. you're forewarned.

It’s fair to say that Michelle was drunk when it all happened.

It had ben when out with a couple of girl friends. It’s a month before graduate school graduation, and Michelle had been dragged along to celebrate. And as one of those graduating, she agreed because she hadn't had much to lose—she has straight A’s, been juggling a job at an internship while dealing one-on-one with her boss’s weekly caffeine deffeciancy-enducued rampages every goddamn Tuesday, and Michelle would be damned if she didn't receive some kind of reward for it. And there’s been talk that she could be working with a modeling company by the end of the year, she tells.

But right now, Michelle’s at some club somewhere on the east side of town; one of their group is very clearly flirting with a beauty in a sequence dress at the bar, and the rest of them cheer her on from their table. Shots become martinis and some evolve into glasses of whiskey or vodka or tequila mixes. And soon, Michelle’s on her third drink—

It happens when Michelle is on her third drink. She's rocking her hips into the sides of her friend’s, swaying along with the music, laughing, loosening up before cram week for finals, and it’s then that she notices.

Now, Michelle is a baller. She knows what she wants and what she's worth, and doesn't have a problem saying as such. Because she's recently turned twenty-two and she's dark curls and immaculately groomed nails and full, pouting lips; she wears fitting lingerie underneath a golden silk dress with a plunging v-neck, and stuntin’ with hooped earrings and nude-peach lipstick and she feels _confident_. Michelle drinks Red Bull paired with an egg sandwich for breakfast as she crosses her long, honey-brown thighs, phone in hand and expression bored, and would give an appointed flick of her finger or a sharp eye roll before she flat-out tells her thoughts or opinions, shamelessly.

Michelle has no problem telling what she wants, what she needs, what she knows.

Which is partially how she's suddenly rethinking all of her decisions for this day as she's staring from the bar to a face she had been certain she left back in freshman year.

Though Michelle knows what she wants, she evidently comes to a grinding halt when it comes to Peter Parker.

Or, at least, she _thinks_ that’s him, her drunken lenses making her imagine.

Because it’s been over three years since their last talk—of an argument involving responsibility and abandonment and isolation—it didn't end favorably, obviously. It’s been over three years since she's seen his large, stupid puppy eyes, or thought about the way he always bites his lip nervously as she stomps over, closing the few feet that had been between them.

Michelle knows all that she wants until it comes to Peter Parker.

Because the next thing she does is demand “what the hell is he doing here,” and she doesn't quite register the growing stubble around his jaw or the faded splatter of blood along his shirt’s neckline. All that she notices is that his annoying, baby soft hair is sticking up at an odd angle and she wants to fix it, to run her hands through it, curl her fingers around it and _hold_ , grab, and yank him closer—

He meets her answer with an equal amount of vigor and spit. He can smell the faint whiff of alcohol on her; swirls the glass in his hand that’s still his first. His nose wrinkles as he gives a spitfire comment that he “deserves a night out at least once in a while with how he's been helping the city, and all.”

Michelle sarcastically comments an agreement, that he's wound tighter than a spring. He glares. Sniffss

She takes his drink, downing the last swallow.

“Hey!”

“Oh hush. The next one is on me, loser,” her hand already waving the bartender over, and she points at the golden timepiece wristwatch, knowing it’s one of those expensive Star Trek brand.

Michelle’s just short of knowing what she wants—she thinks—she assumes. Because she's kissing Parker in the back of a taxicab maybe an hour later. And it’s perhaps another forty minutes later that they're stumbling up the stairs to his mediocre flat on the north side of town. And Michelle had been _so certain_ that she wasn't ever going to see him again, had planned on it, and believed that she hadn't wanted to. Though when he face was pressed to hers back at the bar—well, it got a little fuzzy after that and their second round of drinks.

Michelle had been sure that she didn't want a darn thing to do with that damn Peter Parker again. She had pushed the teenage memories and childish reminiscence to the back of her mind, never to be recalled again; she’d swallowed her emotions and shoveled aside her moping to concentrate on her future.

Her future had seemed crystal and calm without that fucking Peter Parker.

And then she's _fucking_ Parker in his second-rate flat over three years later when she’d told herself she never would.

She's got her thighs spread sinfully wide, bracketing his hips, her dress being pushed up over her waist and then over her head and tossed. And then she has her nails digging into his chest, scratching down his stomach, leaving behind angry, pink lines as her hips rut against him sharply. And she doesn't know—it borderlines admiring and irksome how he's straining to focus his drunken stare on her, to keep his eyes open, as he groans aloud and gasps her name and obscenities as she leans back and continues riding him.

He sits up to run his teeth down her neck, kiss her shoulders, down her arms, then behind her ear. Michelle whimpers erotically as the changed position and then his mouth that’s far too gentle and far too tender for this. And then his hands grab her hips in a force she sure that’s going to bruise as he then prompts her to move, guiding her hips. His face buries in her shoulder. Soon they're flipped over and Peter is mouthing at hr chest and Michelle’s nails are digging in his shoulders and her legs are _up_ and _open_ and she's thankful they're both _too drunk_ right now.

One thing that Michelle notices in her drunken haze is that they don't kiss. At least, not during. There was only at the bar, in the taxi, and a hesitant hover of lips as they both come undone, tangled together. And there’s words he speaks into her skin but they're never clear enough so she never catches it.

* * *

The next morning, Michelle wakes with one arm dangling over the side of his small bed, and her hair in her mouth. The early sun blares in her eyes; just as she registers that the heavy arm draped across her torso is connected to a very warm, very naked man asleep behind her, is when a phone alarm rings from somewhere in the room. Peter’s head jerks up. Michelle acts as if she's still asleep. She notices how he focuses on getting out of the bed without waking her and darts for his phone in his discarded jean’s pocket. Michelle waits until she hears the rustling of clothes until blinking open her eyes. She's got smudged makeup around hr eyes and her lipstick completely rubbed off but Peter still cracks a smile in her direction. It wavers, she notices.

“Morning, um,” he mumbles. Drops his phone in the pockets of his grey sweatpants.

Michelle grunts in response, holding he covers close as flashbacks of last night play like a movie reel behind her eyes. She also tries to ignore the sinking and churning feeling in her chest—especially as Peter shuffles to the edge of his bed. She's almost _afraid_ to look him in the eyes—because this was _not_ supposed to happen! He's her ex; she's _his_ ex, and they weren't supposed to see each other again. They had told each other so. And Michelle’s like, 62% sure she's seen him with some pretty blonde with him in one of Ned’s Snapchats.

But as Peter leans and asks if she's ok, Michelle just grunts out an “uh huh.”

He hesitates, taking notice her avoiding his eyes. Peter’s cheeks puff in a sigh. Runs hands through his hair. “MJ, are you—”

Her eyes dart to his. There’s still that damn loose curl swooping in his face. She remembers the ghost of his lips, remembers the fuzzy, fervid warmth that made her far too nostalgic and comfortable.

She works to avoid staring at his muscles too, to prevent bittersweet submerged memories bubbling to the surface.

Michelle buries her face in his pillow, noting that even smells like him.

“Do you wanna take a shower?” His thumb jabs one of two doors in his tiny apartment. “I can get you a towel and I—”

“No I’m good.” And then she forces a smile that she hopes is believable, that she hopes he doesn't remember is her fake one.

It seems to work. He digs his teeth in his lip and speaks that he's going to be right back, needing to go to the kitchen.

Michelle takes that opportunity to dart out of bed as soon as he's out of sight, pulling on her clothes as quickly as she could, not bothering for her bra and shoving it in her clutch. She runs a hand through her hair and meets tangles right away; she just hopes it could be managed with her fingers.

There’s a faucet running, she hears.

She's got her dress's side halfway zipped up and is fumbling with her phone, barefoot, as she slinks out of his bedroom. And she's literally pulling the front door open and has a foot over the threshold when she catches out of the corner of her eye, Peter placing two glasses of water on the counter before briskly walking to the front door. But Michelle doesn't get to give an excuse or reason or apology, as she's running as fast as she can, barefoot, down the flights of apartment building stairs—she isn't sure she’d be able to give one. She’d given her apology back in his bedsheets. And as she exits on to New York’s streets, she wipes at her face, at the mascara and moisture underneath her eyes, takes a steadying breath, slips on her shoes.

She thinks she hears another pair of footsteps running down the stairs, too, but she then dashes through the streets and blends in the crowd, and then it’s too late to even look back or consider if this was yet another mistake.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it too angsty? Not angsty enough? Did you like it or hate it? Please, please, please let me know :)


End file.
